


Old Tourist Town

by spencersmith



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Ireland, Kissing, M/M, irish courfeyrac, welsh combeferre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 03:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8517370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spencersmith/pseuds/spencersmith
Summary: Courfeyrac loves the Winter. Especially Winter in Dublin, when Grafton street is lit up with a million Christmas lights and it always seems to be pissing rain. Not that he ever minds the rain, ‘cause it makes his hair curly in a good way and it’s a good excuse to stay in the pub longer, listening to Enjolras shout passionately over the chatter and the trad music from upstairs. In which Courfeyrac is too giddy, and Combeferre kisses him in a rainy alleyway in Dublin.irish!Courfeyrac and welsh!Combeferre





	

**Author's Note:**

> some appropriate background music -
> 
> [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9a8pVGa1Mo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9a8pVGa1Mo2) 
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Courfeyrac loves the Winter. Especially Winter in Dublin, when Grafton street is lit up with a million Christmas lights and it always seems to be pissing rain. Not that he ever minds the rain, ‘cause it makes his hair curly in a good way and it’s a good excuse to stay in the pub longer, listening to Enjolras shout passionately over the chatter and the trad music from upstairs. 

 

They’d usually spend their time in the Musain, a basement pub near Temple Bar. The owner lets them have meetings there, lets Enjolras be loud and usually lets them away with only paying half price for the obscene amount of pints Grantaire finishes every night. 

 

They’re all sitting around that wooden table now, hushed, Grantaire standing and holding up his half empty pint of Guinness.

 

“My friends,” he says, his voice warm. “It is with great pleasure that we welcome our newest recruit! Fresh out of Trinners and ready to tackle the bourgeois bastards. Combeferre?”

 

The guy sitting next to Grantaire stands up and gives a small wave. He’s tall and kinda lanky and he’s wearing those thick framed glasses that make Courfeyrac’s heart feel funny and  _ Christ Almighty, how did Courfeyrac not notice him there?  _

 

“Hiya guys,” Combeferre says with an adorably shy smile and the thickest Welsh accent Courfeyrac has ever heard. “I’m so delighted to meet you all. I was part of something like this in Wales but no one ever put their heart into it.”

 

“We’re delighted to have you too, Combeferre.” Enjolras says from the other end of the table. 

 

Combeferre sits back down and everyone claps and whistles, and then everyone’s chatting and there’s that happy buzz in the air again that Courf is addicted to.

 

He squeezes out of his seat and moves down to where Combeferre is sitting, pulling a chair from another table and squeezing in between him and Grantaire. Combeferre smiles at him when he sits down, and it takes every fibre of Courfeyrac’s being not to smooch him right there.

 

“HI!” Courf shouts over the violin music, that keeps picking up in pace. Which fittingly matches his heartbeat.

 

“Hey!” Combeferre replies, ducking his gaze and taking a sip of his pint.

“Did R say you’re just out of Trinity College?” 

 

“R?”

 

Courfeyrac laughs and points at Grantaire. “Grantaire. That’s our nickname for him. Get it?”

 

Combeferre snorts and rolls his eyes. “I get it. Yeah, I just graduated.”

 

“Look at you, clever dick! What’d you study?”

 

Combeferre laughs. “Classics with History, actually.”

 

“That’s fantastic! That’s so cool!” Courfeyrac cringes listening to himself, makes a mental note to tone it down. “What made you come to Ireland?”

 

“I’ve always loved Ireland. Everything about your history - Parnell, 1916, the Treaty - you’ve always fought for freedom. I wish Wales would have done the same.”

 

Courfeyrac is grinning so hard his face hurts. 

 

“Plus, I think I’m a bit in love with Dublin.” Combeferre continues. 

 

“Me too.” Courfeyrac admits. “I moved here from Ballyvaughan in the West and expected to hate it but I think it kinda owns my heart.” 

 

“What’s your name, by the way?”

 

“Oh sorry! I’m Courfeyrac, how rude of me.” Courfeyrac holds his hand out and Combeferre shakes it. He has a firm handshake. Their legs are brushing under the table and neither really move away.

 

“Can I buy you a drink, Courfeyrac?”

 

“Ah no, you’re so good! That’s so kind of you. I should be getting you your next drink, you’re our new recruit.”

 

“I meant it in more of a gay way than a revolutionary way.” Combeferre says coolly. 

 

Courfeyrac can’t help the weird giddy giggle that escapes his lips. “In that case yes, absolutely, yes.” 

 

Combeferre smiles and stands up to head over to the bar, leaving Courfeyrac sitting there with his face flushed and Grantaire staring at him with an amused look on his face.

“Okay, that was fuckin’ adorable.” Grantaire grins. “Don’t blow this.”

 

“Well don’t  _ tell  _ me not to blow it ‘cause then I’m definitely gonna blow it!” Courfeyrac hisses.

 

Before Grantaire can respond, Combeferre is back, with two pints. He sets one down in front of Courfeyrac and sits back down.

 

“Thanks a million!” Courfeyrac beams, taking a sip and wiping the foam off his lip. “So where are you from in Wales?”

 

“The North, Llanfair.”

 

“Dude. Isn’t that the place with the super long--”

 

“Yes, yes, it is.” 

 

“Oh my god  _ please _ say it for me.”

 

Combeferre sighs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Okay, but you owe me one.”

 

“Deal.”

“ Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch”

 

Courfeyrac squeals, reaching over to tug at Grantaire’s sleeve. 

 

“Grantaire, R, you have to listen to this.”

 

“What, what?”

 

“Say it again, ‘Ferre,  _ please. _ ”

 

“ Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.”

 

“Oh my God” Grantaire laughs. “That’s where you’re from?”

 

Combeferre nods, faking a look of dismay. Courfeyrac chugs a little too much of his pint in one go to calm the fluttery feeling in his stomach. 

 

They keep talking like that all evening, buying each other drinks and pretending not to notice when their legs brush under the table. 

“How did you know I was gay?” Courfeyrac asks, after his third pint.

 

“Hopeful guess.” Combeferre replies. “...And I saw you on grindr earlier.”

 

Combeferre laughs, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God, that picture is so embarrassing. You probably think I’m so desperate.”

 

“I thought it was cute.”

 

Courfeyrac snorts. “Really?”

 

“Yeah. I think you’re cute.”

 

Courfeyrac’s heart is pounding in his chest. He finishes off the last of his pint and puts his glass down on the table. “Do you smoke? Do you want to go outside for a bit?”

 

“I don’t really smoke, but I’d love to go outside.” 

 

That’s how Courfeyrac ends up standing outside in the light rain with the cutest boy he’s ever seen, on the grey cobblestones with the faint sound of trad music and the lights from the pub windows making his face glow. Courfeyrac lights a cigarette but he’s afraid Combeferre will see how much his hands are shaking every time he takes a drag.

“This was a nice way to get me alone.” Combeferre jokes. 

 

Courfeyrac giggles nervously. “Was it that obvious?”

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

Combeferre leans against the wall next to him, holding his hand out to take a drag of Courfeyrac’s cigarette. When  he hands it back, all Courf can think about is the fact that his mouth was on it.

 

He’s really feeling the effects of those pints now, and judging by the soft pink glow in Combeferre’s cheeks, so is he.

 

“Hey.” Combeferre says. “I know this is forward, but would you mind if I uh, kissed you? Can I kiss you?”

 

Courfeyrac gulps, his words catching in his throat. All he can do is nod, nod frantically. 

 

Combeferre takes the cigarette out of Courf’s hand and throws it on the ground, stepping it out. He moves close enough to Courfeyrac that the fronts of their coats are brushing but their bodies aren’t, and he gently puts one of his hands on Courf’s jaw, tilting his head back ever so slightly. Courf can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears, can’t think of anything except the boy in front of him and the light raindrops that are making his skin glitter and his  _ perfect mouth.  _ Combeferre brings his other hand up to cup Courfeyrac’s face and closes some of the distance, so that his mouth is a fraction of an inch away from Courfeyrac’s. Courf’s eyes flutter closed. When Combeferre presses their mouths together it’s gentle and tentative and his lips are warm and rough and Courfeyrac’s heartbeat is probably audible.

 

Combeferre pulls back and Courf’s eyes flutter open. He absently puts his hand up to his mouth, touching his lips. It’s only when Combeferre breaks the silence that he realises he’s been holding his breath.

 

“Good?”

 

Combeferre breathes out. “Good.”

  
And then they’re laughing, and Combeferre is lacing their fingers together and leading them back inside, where some people have started singing Raglan Road. Everyone cheers when they come back in, Grantaire greeting them back with open arms. And maybe it’s the excitement and the alcohol, and the fact that a cute boy just kissed him in a rainy alleyway in Dublin; but for the first time in his life, Courfeyrac is exactly where he wants to be. He wouldn’t trade this for anything.


End file.
